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“‘Boss’?” I mouthed around a grin.
Aurnia stuck out her tongue, but I saw the happy glimmer in her eyes. “Do you want to see or not?”
The tattoo was perfect. A recreation of Starry Night on the girl’s waist. Midnight swirls along the ribs. Ribbons of gold dipping beneath the low hem of her jeans. Samantha was twisting this way and that in the mirror. Aurnia was fussing with it here and there. I was just about to say that it was one of the best tattoos I’d ever seen, that I’d never been prouder, when the front door crashed open.
A woman strode in like a force of nature, her long brown and honey hair flaring behind her like she was in a commercial. She stopped, hand on hip, commanding the space like she owned it. She whipped off jet-black sunglasses, pursing large red lips as she scanned the room.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“I’m looking for Mason Donovan,” she said with a distinct accent.
I’d never known one Miss Last Night to be American. Europeans of all kinds, sure. He sampled Asian women like his dick was a set of chopsticks. I was sure he’d fucked Canadians and Mexicans and even a chick from Greenland. But I couldn’t recall one single American.
I tried to handle the situation quietly, inviting Miss Last Night into the kitchen for a quick cup of tea. That usually worked for the scorned ones. The ones who thought they’d made a real connection. The ones who didn’t understand why Mason never called. A quick cup of tea. A pat on the back. An agreement: yes, yes, he is a bastard.
The American was as immovable as a brick wall.
“I’m not looking for fucking tea,” she growled at me, cat-like eyes flashing. “I’m looking for my fucking, and apparently fucking a lot, husband.”
Well, fuck me.
Miss Last Night was a Mrs.
I didn’t know Mason had Miss Last Nights who were American. And I certainly didn’t know he had Miss Last Nights who he’d put a ring on, on the way out the door.
I guess every family has its secrets.
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